


Voicemail

by Alternate_Reality1



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alternate_Reality1/pseuds/Alternate_Reality1
Summary: "This is Jeff Tracy.  Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you." - TAG one shot





	Voicemail

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again TB fans. I hope you're all keeping well and enjoying life and Thunderbirds (who can't love them?). Here is another one shot for you to... enjoy? Maybe mull over is the better term, as there may be a bit of a tissue alert for the ending. Poor Scott really does suffer in my TAG stories of late.
> 
> I would like to send a big thank you to my beta ScribeofRED – she is the best, and has taught me a lot through the editing process, as well as polished this piece up wonderfully. As always I am in debt to you.

::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

-click-

 

Message one. Sent April twelfth, two thousand and fifty-nine, at one thirty-three AM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"I... I can't do this..."

 

-click-

 

Message two. Sent April fifteenth, two thousand and fifty-nine, at three-twelve PM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Where are you, Dad? I... I could really use your help right now. I... We need you back."

 

-click-

 

Message three. Sent May first, two thousand and fifty-nine, at twelve oh nine AM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Hey Dad, it seems pretty dumb leaving these messages, but somehow... Well, I guess I just want to hear your voice. I know you're out there, somewhere, alive, and hearing this, but... Well, we just want you back."

 

-click-

 

Message four. Sent May twenty-first, two thousand and fifty-nine, at ten fifty-two PM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Good afternoon Mr. Tracy, this is Selma Williams, from Williams and Seeker Ltd. I'm just following up on – "

 

Message five. Sent May twenty-second, two thousand and fifty-nine, at ten thirteen AM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Sorry, Dad. I'm – "

"Scott?"

"Oh hey, Gords, just calling – "

 

-click-

 

Message six. Sent June third, two thousand and fifty-nine, at six twenty-three AM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Why hello there, Jeff! It's Marty! Long time, no see, my dear fellow! How are things down under for you? I heard about Wally's sad passing and thought to myself, 'I haven't spoken to that old pal of mine Jeff Tracy in a long while', and so here's my call! Give us a call back when you can, be good to catch up with – "

 

Message seven. Sent June fifth, two thousand and fifty-nine, at one forty PM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Sorry Jeff, Marty again. Forgot to leave you my damn number. This is the wife's – "

 

Message eight. Sent June fifth, two thousand and fifty-nine, at one forty-three PM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Hey, Dad, me again, old faithful. I just like to hear your voice now and again, even though I know it isn't you, and... Well... John would think I'm so stupid for doing this, and Gordon would think me insane, I'm practically talking to myself. We had a big rescue, a collapsed mine in Lagos. It took us nearly two days to pull out the survivors. Flying home over the Indian Ocean, I realised that might've been the last position we tracked you at. That somewhere, underneath those waves.... It doesn't really bear thinking about. I hope... I _know_ you're out there, Dad, and we'll find you, no matter how long it takes. Just, hang in there for us, hmm?"

 

-click-

 

Message nine. Sent August first, two thousand and fifty-nine, at eleven forty PM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Merry Christmas, Dad."

 

-click-

 

Message ten. Sent December twenty-fifth, two thousand and fifty-nine, at twelve oh-one AM.

 

\------------

 

_"This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back to you."_

 

-beep-

 

"Dad...it's Gordon...he's... He's in a bad way. A gas pipe exploded while we were attending an emergency in Chicago, and he... Needless to say, a young woman owes her life to his selfless act. You'd be really proud if you'd seen what he did, stupid idiot. The doctors say... The doctors... Oh God, Dad, I really need you here right now. The guys, they're all looking to me for some sort of hope, but I... I don't know what to do. Dad, if you can hear me right now, please give me a sign, anything to tell me it's all going to be all right..."

 

-click-

 

Message eleven. Sent February tenth, two thousand and sixty, at three fifty-one AM.

 

::x:x::xx::xXx::xx::x:x::

 

It's all he can do to keep it together.

He sits alone in the sterile, gleaming corridor of the hospital, the scent of bleach invading his nostrils. The orderly has just finished cleaning up after a patient had vomited all over the floor, but he spares no sympathy for him, trapped in his own grief.

He doesn't have the strength or the composure to share his feelings with others. All the strength he has is being used to keep him alert for any news of his brother.

So blinkered to the world is he, he fails to notice the person arrive and take the seat beside him; fails to see or hear him for a full five minutes, until the visitor clears his throat and asks him a question.

"Any news?"

John gives him time to take a breath and drop his mind back in the present, having allowed it to float away whilst staring into empty space. Scott leans forward, head in hands, a shaky intake of air giving as much of an answer as words ever could. But still he needs to speak. "Not yet."

A hand claps him on the shoulder, rubs it soothingly. John has the world's greatest technology aboard Thunderbird Five, and along with his unmatched hacking skills, he could simply tap into the hospital's records and see for himself how Gordon is doing, without the need to return to Earth. But here he is, not only on terra firma, but at the hospital itself, sat next to Scott in person, rather than present himself as a holographic representation.

It's a sure sign he's afraid for Gordon's life.

"Virgil's on his way in Two, bringing Grandma back from London." Being able to remotely control the ships has its advantages – it had allowed John to arrive quickly at the hospital and provide much-needed comfort to his older brother. How much comfort, he's not sure.

Both brothers sit in silence for a few minutes more. Scott begins to rock ever so slightly, as though preparing to run if the news they receive is what he doesn't want to – or cannot – deal with. John recognises Scott's fear in the form of silence. When Scott's afraid he clams up, as though scared he might jinx things by saying something. He implodes, his lack of control throwing him into disarray. John, on the other hand, has a mind that refuses to stay silent for long and likes to keep him busy – especially when he's trying to coax his older brother out of his guilty shell. They're both older brothers sharing a concern for a younger sibling; he knows how he is feeling.

"You know..." John dips in tentatively, unsure if this is the right time to test this pool of conversation. "Ever since Dad disappeared, I've been monitoring everything for any leads to his whereabouts. Radio frequencies, news channels, the internet, the dark web – _anything_ that might be used in any type of situation. I've... I've also been monitoring Dad's personal emails and voicemails, in case he tries to call us."

Scott immediately stops rocking at the end of the last sentence. But he doesn't look at John. Instead he finds the floor a more interesting thing to study. He clears his throat. "You have."

"Scott, I know about the voicemails you've left for Dad. I know you're scared. We all are."

Scott's eyes outline the edges of the worn blue linoleum tiles, while his mind outlines his next response. This is what a leader does: weighs up his choices, balances each one for the best outcome, then kicks it into action. This choice of choices is no different. He can be angry with John for intruding on something so private between a father and son. But then he makes himself a hypocrite for always encouraging his brothers to talk when their problems become too much to handle. He can end the conversation straight away and not answer, laying it to rest until another day when John will, no doubt, bring up the subject again.

His third option is to simply give John what he is looking for.

Answers.

Swallowing back the lump in his throat, Scott begins. "Ever since Dad disappeared, I've felt so... So useless, so helpless. I feel like a first-time parent who's just had triplets and doesn't have a clue what he's doing – know what I mean? So... out of my depth with everything, and..." That lump in his throat hardens, seizes his windpipe. "It's at times like these I need to ask what to do. How not to feel so frightened and lost, and... just..." Words are hiding from him, camouflaged by grief and shame that he's already preparing himself for the worst possible outcome.

"It's kind of stupid, but I can't remember what he sounds like, John." Scott turns dull blue irises in the direction of his brother but avoids eye contact for the moment. "I close my eyes, try to imagine what he would say to me in situations like this, how he would say it. But I can't. I can't hear his voice at all. Why can't I hear him?"

This is his cue to look up to John, his eyes probing for answers while his mind is already supplying doubts. "It's one line, just one line, but in that one line I can imagine he's coming home. He's only gone away on a short business trip and will be home soon. I can even imagine that one time when I call, he'll pick up and answer in that flat, gruff, no-nonsense tone of his, and I'll feel such a fool for ever doubting he would leave us like he did..." As if to heighten his hopes, Scott pops out his phone, dials his father's number, and activates the loudspeaker. Sure enough, as has happened many times before, the monotone voice of Jefferson Tracy speaks out. " _This is Jeff Tracy. Leave your message after the beep, and I'll get right back –_ " Only this time, Scott doesn't allow it to finish, quickly tapping the 'end call' symbol.

John's soft snort seems so out of place in their talk. "Typical Dad, he was always wary when it came to technology. Never did want to give up his privacy, insisting on a 'voice-only' voicemail message," John reflects. "He realised its importance, but that didn't mean he was prepared to embrace it himself."

Scott sighs, his burdening thoughts getting heavier. John shuffles forward in his chair to lean closer and mirror his brother's position, lowers his head and his voice accordingly. "It's our fault for putting so much responsibility on you."

At this, Scott jerks his head up, instinct telling him to refute the statement in a snap. "What? No! It isn't your fault, don't you think that. If anything it's my own fault for not handling things better, for not being up to task, for not – "

"Scott," John interrupts, before the void known as Scott's mouth spews out any more bull. "You're our _brother_ , not our _dad_. For once will you stop acting like a parent and bring yourself back down to our level?"

For a moment brother eldest stares at brother younger, shoulders remaining tense, jaw rigid. Then he backs down – the fight abandons him, his muscles relax anew. He knows John is right in his observations, always is. Still, it doesn't mean he has to like it, or even agree. And it doesn't mean that John will leave it at that any time soon.

"We don't need you to take the blame for any of our mistakes. I know Grandma still likes to think she's scary, waving that wooden spoon at us, but frankly that's the only time she's good at using it. Certainly isn't to cook with." John laughs at his own joke, hoping some joviality will help to lift off a portion of the weight on Scott's shoulders. It seems to, if only a little, as a soft snort proves.

"Don't let her hear you say that, or else she might sneak in some of her cookies in your next supply run up to Five."

The humour has some effect, washing away a little guilty grime from the elder's mind. But John wasn't expecting miracles to happen, knows it is only a minor and temporary deflection before they have to return to the subject at hand.

"I miss Dad too, Scott. We all do. And, yes, things like this, they knock you sideways, make you question things without even realising it. I remember that rescue in Lagos, those trapped miners. I remember asking myself, 'What would Dad do in a situation like this?', and then realising what a coincidence I should think about Dad when you're flying over the very ocean where he went missing."

For the first time in their conversation, Scott turns fully to look at John, square on. "You're not the superstitious type."

"No," he agrees, "and I don't think you're stupid, by the way." There's a faint snort beside him. "But it just shows he's still there in some form, in the back of our minds if not in front of our eyes."

"Your point being?"

John clears his throat. He's been on call for the past fourteen hours, coordinating his brothers and authorities alike. It has left him somewhat hoarse, croaky.

"My point being..." he begins, though his train of thought is sluggish, the exhaustion slowing it down on its way to the station of reason. "My point being, Dad didn't bring us up to be five clones of himself. He didn't expect us to grow up to be exactly like him. He wanted us to be our own people, make our own choices, have our own minds. He taught us both sides but left it up to us to decide what is right and what is wrong. In other words, he wanted us to decide our own lives. To do what we think is right."

Scott continues to wear an expression of puzzlement. "Yes, he did. But I'm still not getting what your point is."

"What I'm saying is, that voice in your head should be yours, not Dad's. What decisions you make, we'll all back you up. What problems you face, we'll help you as best we can. And when one of us is hurt" – he gestures down the hall, to the double doors that lead to the operating theatre, where Gordon currently is – "we'll all stand by each other.

"You're not alone in this, Scott. Don't think because you're the eldest you have to be the strongest."

One of the doors opens, and John knows he has just a few seconds to finish his point before the doctor, still dressed in scrubs, walks up to them with news of their brother. He has a few seconds before their world is possibly turned upside down for the second time in less than twelve months, or before they can celebrate some good fortune.

Both siblings stand, awaiting the verdict. John places a hand on Scott's arm without taking his eyes off the doctor heading toward them, his contact reassuring and strong. He hopes his touch and his words have seeped into Scott's heart, and with only a few strides to count down, he whispers, "He'll be ok, Scott. You'll see."

The clairvoyance John demonstrates loses no effect when the doctor announces the success of their brother's surgery. His vitals are strong, his condition stable. Scott feels his knees give way, his head dizzy with every rushing emotion zipping past – fear, relief, doubt, then more fear, overtaken by even more relief, interweaved with joy. The biggest smile beams across John's face; he pretends not to notice the glistening tear in the corner of Scott's eye, and finds it harder to ignore the shaky hand that wipes it away.

Scott turns away for a moment of privacy, gathering together the chaos of thoughts in his head. He leans an arm on the wall, leans his head on it, and closes his eyes. He knows John is only trying to comfort him the best way he can, but he has misinterpreted what it is Scott is struggling to cope with.

He is more of a parent to them all than John realises. Scott has seen every smile of success, every tear of disappointment over his brothers' lives. He was the one they ran to when they were scared and happy, and on many occasions the one to side with them when Dad was 'out of order' or being 'mean'. So while he is their blood brother, he also holds the title of 'stand-in parent', because there was no one else to take on the role – even more so when their father disappeared.

He can't be anything but proud of the boys he's helped raise into men. But someone had to help him become a man as well.

So when he hears news of Gordon's pull-through, all of his protective being breaks his shell and screams out in delight. Had things turned out for the worse, he would never have forgiven himself.

He wants so desperately to allow his brothers to share in his burden, but he knows – and he knows John knows, deep down – that he cannot do that. It goes against every molecule of his being. It goes against his parental nature.

He overhears the doctor and John discuss the next steps for Gordon and whether they can see him. He allows John to take over from here, confident the redhead will obtain all the information they'll need. Not only that, but Scott needs a few moments longer to get his power of speech back up and running.

The next thing he is aware of is a hand on his shoulder and John coaxing him back to the two chairs down the corridor they had recently vacated. They're still warm, just as John's voice is. The words are muffled, Scott's mind is muddled.

John pushes him into the seat when it becomes clear his brother is not co-ordinated. Scott has imploded again, and, giving himself an excuse to find a vending machine, John leaves him alone to give him space.

" _He'll be ok, Scott. You'll see._ "

"You see, Dad, he was ok," comes the choked voice, spoken to an empty space beside him. He feels as alone and lost as he ever has. He pulls out his phone, habit urging him to dial the ever-familiar number, but his thumb only hovers over the screen, paused in time.

Waiting for a phone call he may never receive.

The device sits hauntingly silent, a cruel trick of Fate. A black and empty screen, as black and empty as the void digging into the pit of his stomach. Perhaps it is time to accept that their father may never come home. Surely he would have wanted to know if Gordon was stable or had at least survived.

Scott closes his eyes. He's thankful a million times over for the wish he has been granted today. But his lip quivers; he chokes back a sob. A lone tear traces a line down his cheek – a tear for the 304 days his other pleas haven't been answered. But then, perhaps this is the sign he was looking for. He had asked for a miracle, something to show that everything was going to be fine. Maybe he has been too blind to see it, right in front of him. It brings very little comfort as he sits there, alone, fearful that this may not be the last time he waits to hear about a dying brother or friend.

Another tear falls; this time it's a tear of uncertainty – of not knowing whether he will sit here again, looking down at a silent phone praying it will ring. That one day, the connection has to die, and all he will have left is a voicemail to talk to.

It's a future he must fear alone.

_"This is Jeff Tracy... I'll get right back to you."_


End file.
